


what you give your heart to

by kerrykins



Category: The Devil Wears Prada (2006)
Genre: Angst, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Minor Original Character(s), Neighbors, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Post-Canon, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slow Burn, Slow To Update
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-29
Updated: 2019-03-05
Packaged: 2019-10-18 23:48:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17590736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kerrykins/pseuds/kerrykins
Summary: The year is 2019. Miranda Priestly is tired, and retreats into the past. Andy Sachs is wary, and hopes that the future will be better. Neither of them ever thought that they'd end up neighbours.





	1. La Vie En Gris

**Author's Note:**

> I dedicate this story to all the lovely friends that I've made in this small but welcoming community. I wouldn't be here writing if it weren't for y'all, I love you guys. Thank you to anyone who takes the time to read this story. <3 I appreciate your support
> 
> This is something I've had in the back of my mind for a while. It's different than the other things I've written, and I'm not sure what I want to do with it. Regardless, I hope you like it.
> 
> Background information: It has been 13 years since the events of the movie. Miranda is 62, and Andy is 37. Miranda's birthday is on May 15th, while Andy's is June 25th. Miranda's daughters are 20.
> 
> 1st Author's Note: Occasionally I'll revisit old chapters, add/remove/edit things. So sometimes 1K words might magically appear in a chapter that's already been posted. Just throwing this out here, this story may actually be a mess.
> 
> Also btw my Tumblr is @dobbypussssyindulgence, so feel free to message me, send me asks, whatever!
> 
> 2nd Author's Note: I love and appreciate all your comments, I welcome criticism and questions with open arms! I may not be able to respond to all of them, but know that I greatly enjoy reading them.
> 
> Without further ado, here is What You Give Your Heart To.

“ _You musn't give your heart to a wild thing. The more you do, the stronger they get, until they're strong enough to run into the woods or fly into a tree. And then to a higher tree and then to the sky.”_ -Holly Golightly, _Breakfast At Tiffany’s_

**Day One**

January 19, 2019: M. 

Miranda stared out her window, watching the world fly by her in blurs of grey and muted green. Her sunglasses were perched on the bridge of her nose, casting everything around her in dark colours. Miranda was the kind of person whose mind was always buzzing with activity, exploring the future and consulting the past. At the moment however, her thoughts were nothing more than a mere hum in the background as she peered outside. She was well away from the flashes of silver light and the glint of steel of the city.

 

Surprisingly, she wasn’t too fond of New York, despite spending a majority of her time there. It was cramped, dirty, and in the city, she was required to uphold a certain kind of image. That was undoubtedly the worst part about it. Miranda felt like millions of people were holding a magnifying glass up to her, that she was burning under the focused glass lense and unwanted spotlight. She often wondered, privately, if all this was worth it.

 

Sure, every woman in the world wanted to be her, and every man in the world wanted her. Sure, she was a fashion icon, one of the most influential women in the world, and a revolutionary in the publishing industry. Was it worth losing three husbands, her friends, and the adoration of her children?

 

No.

 

Miranda pressed her cheek to the little nook between the window and her seat. There were children playing hopscotch on the sidewalk and paddy-cake on the steps of an apartment complex. When the twins were just toddlers, they’d do the same. Miranda remembered taking them to Central Park, holding their sticky palms as they crossed the street. She would have held them tighter if she knew what the future held for them.

 

Everything had been so much easier then. Back then, it was normal for her to kiss them on their foreheads, normal to have dinner together every evening. She’d leave work early on Fridays, and no sooner than she’d set foot into the house, she’d be engulfed in an enormous hug. Cassidy, Caroline, and Greg’s arms were almost constricting, and though she’d always rebuke them, it was never in earnest. Eventually she’d end up laughing along with them, and they’d stand there for a while.

 

The glass on her face suddenly felt cold, and shifted so that she was no longer leaning against the window.

 

___

 

Once the car had stopped, Miranda opened the door for herself and stepped out without a word to Roy. Outside, her breath formed small wisps in the cold evening air. Like she always did, Miranda glanced at the townhouse adjacent to hers. _SOLD,_ the unsightly sign on the door proclaimed. _About time,_ she thought.

 

Gloria Bianchi hadn’t been a pleasant neighbour, and Miranda was never fond of her. Her passing, however, had been rather strange. It left quite the impression on the neighbourhood, even though no one liked her. It was just that she had always been there, and no one expected her to one day disappear. The woman had been a force of nature, and even in her eighties, was quite eccentric. She talked too loud, smoked too much, and gave advice even though no one asked her for it. Miranda recalled a moment when she has been smoking on the rooftop, after another argument with Stephen. She had thought she was alone, until a raspy voice chimed, “You look like shit.”

 

Alarmed, Miranda had nearly dropped her cigarette. She didn’t scare easily, but having some old crone yapping at you at 2:00 A.M. in the morning was enough to make anyone jump.

 

“I didn’t ask for criticism.” Miranda growled. She couldn’t see much, as it was dark, but squinted in Gloria’s direction regardless. There was a snort.

 

“I decided to give it out anyways, though you might need it.” She had a Brooklyn accent, and it was hoarse from decades of smoking. Cassidy had once said she sounded like the receptionist from Monsters Inc.

 

Miranda rolled her eyes. “How generous of you. I don’t believe you can see me.”

 

“Don’t need to. You’re out here, which means you’re probably not doing too good. Another fight with that fellow with the eggplant nose?”

 

“None of your concern.” Her voice rose defensively.

 

“The hell are you smoking? Smells like something died. Was it your marriage that died?” Miranda’s face grew hot.

 

“This ain’t your first one, sweetie. No need to cry over it. Anyways, not a big loss, that man. His nose looks like an eggplant.”

 

“So you’ve said. And I’m not crying over it. I don’t cry.”

 

“But you do smoke,” Gloria reminded her. “They’re pretty much the same thing. You just keep going and going, until you’re out of cigarettes or out of things to care about. And then there’s nothing, and you’re left unsatisfied. But the good thing with cigarettes, is that you can always go buy more, eh?” Miranda didn’t reply.

 

“Have a good one.” There was loud rustling noise, presumably the woman going back down into the house.

 

___

 

Miranda wondered who the new neighbour was. It was probably some family. When the girls were young, most of the occupants on the street were retired billionaires, whose grandchildren scarcely visited.

 

Nowadays though, she was receiving invitations to block parties that promised good wine and play groups. She used to take walks around the area every evening, but stopped once met by large swarms of people, who were returning to their homes after parties. They’d ask her with wide eyes if she was _really_ Miranda Priestly, as if an abundance of Miranda Priestly look alikes frequented the Upper East Side. She’d have to answer stupid questions, smile so widely that it made her face ache, and make up excuses so she could leave. Miranda hadn’t gone out for another walk after that.

 

She was more than upset that her girls hadn’t been able to grow up in an environment like this. Where they could stay with a friend instead of a full-time babysitter, and had people to talk to other than themselves. Though it wouldn’t have solved everything, it would have been helpful to some extent.

 

A cold gust of wind made her shiver, and reminded her that she had been standing outside for God knows how long. Giving Gloria’s old townhouse one last glance, she climbed up the marble steps, and unlocked the door. Her key was battered, rusty, and a health hazard, but it never struck her to replace it. After all, she’d been using the same key for about thirty years. Despite how small it was, it comforted Miranda to know that she’d always unlock the door with the same key, with the small indentation in its side and the faded label.

 

Everything was always changing, and she stood in the centre of it all, as the world cycloned around her. Miranda however, stayed the same. She retained the same signature silver hair, and her face was exactly as it was when she was forty-five; with the exception of a few, almost invisible wrinkles. Runway was all about change, and she was hailed an innovative, futuristic thinker. While at work, that certainly could be said about her. However-- in every other aspect of life, she valued stability and familiarity. She ate eggs for breakfast every morning, she never deviated from her normal coffee order, and she applied her makeup the same way she did in the early 2000s. It kept her grounded in this lonely, crazed world.

 

As she hung up her coat and kicked off her Manolo Blahniks, she heard the pitter-patter of rain. It started softly at first, but then grew in intensity, and soon her windows roared as water pounded down on them. She wasn’t hungry, so she poured herself a glass of overpriced wine, and settled onto the ledge of a large window. Miranda absently sipped it as she watched droplets fall from the dreary grey sky, still wearing her sunglasses, even though it was dark enough already.

___

 

January 19, 2019: A.

 

Andy knew a lot about running away.

 

When she was eight, she’d ran away from home because she wasn’t allowed to have a dog, only to come back an hour later in tears. She’d stormed out of a lecture hall when her professor had given her a failing grade on her paper, just because he hated her. However, she returned the next day and apologised for her behaviour. Most of the time, Andy never left for good; she’d always bounce back. Most of the time, not always. There were two exceptions to this. The first was when she had walked away from Miranda Priestly in Paris, and thrown her phone into a fountain. The second time was now, though a little more complicated than the rest.

 

Andy sighed, drumming her fingers against the steering wheel. Runway seemed like a lifetime ago. Names, faces, and places were murky. Except for one person, of course. It’s really hard to forget someone like Miranda Priestly; she just couldn’t, even if she tried. If Andy shut her eyes, she could recall her face perfectly.

 

The editor had just a few noticeable wrinkles around her eyes, which were the same striking colour as ice, and just as chilly. Her hair was frosty white, cheekbones prominent, and wit sharp. In regards of her appearance, it made sense why tabloids referred to her as the Snow Queen.

 

In other terms, however, the title couldn’t be anything farther from the truth. They thought she was cold, incapable of emotion. Andy saw an inexhaustible fire in her eyes, tempered but not subdued. If she really was as uncaring as some claimed, why would she always work so fervently? Miranda was demanding because she cared about fashion, the magazine, and her daughters. That was why she didn’t allow room for error, and refused to accept anything less than perfect.

 

Andy had thought she’d understood Miranda well, at least until Paris. At the time, she couldn’t get why the older woman had destroyed the dreams of her only friend. Now, Andy knew that she didn’t have much of an alternative. It was either Miranda or the other guy-- she couldn’t remember his name, but his face wasn’t too distorted in her mind. Bald man with glasses. _Probably not too important right now,_ Andy mused, and stopped trying to remember. Anyways, she could feel a headache coming on.

 

Thinking about the past was difficult, usually. Painful. Andy just thought that walking away from her job in Syria, and moving here, would be a fresh start for her. A part of her knew subconsciously that the kind of the things she’d seen would haunt her forever. It couldn’t be solved by a swanky townhouse in the good part of New York, or by not being there anymore. Even though she woke up every day on her old friend Doug’s couch instead of a cot in the Middle East, it was still scary. Often times, she’d have to leap out at some ungodly hour in the morning, not even half-awake, because people were coming to kill her.

 

Before she’d taken this assignment, she took being normal for granted. How was she supposed to laugh with the rest of the world, when she knew over 20,000 children had been slaughtered? Why would she ever want to sleep when her dreams replayed the same screams, the same marred faces, the same explosions, over and over and over and over again?

 

Andy’s grip on the wheel loosened, and she felt herself starting to drift into another lane. With a jolt, she managed to get herself back to reality, but her hands shook. If she was having an episode right now, while she was on the freeway, she’d be fucked. Thankfully, it eventually subsided, and Andy felt a wave of relief wash over her.

 

It wouldn’t be like that here. Andy had high hopes for New York, she’d loved it when she had lived here all those years ago. Hope-- that was something had seemed like an impossibility for so long. If Miranda could live off of it, maybe she could too.

 

As Andy drove through the Upper East Side, taking in every well clipped shrub and ornate building, something familiar stirred inside her. It was only a remnant of a memory though, and slipped through the crevices of her mind within a moment. Andy frowned in disappointment, because it had seemed like something pleasant.

 

A cheery song came on the radio, and even though she couldn’t remember the name or its lyrics, Andy found herself humming along to it.

 

**Day Two**

 

January 20, 2019: A.

 

Andy sighed, leaning against the side of her car for a moment to catch her breath. She had been moving boxes almost all day long, unloading her few possessions. Andy didn’t own much, because in Syria she’d have to travel light, and she’d had this weird idea that moving herself in would be fun. It had been, but also a lot of work.

 

She unscrewed her water bottle, gulping down its contents so quickly that her head spun. Andy took a moment to appreciate how quiet it was; the delicate maple trees, scarlet and amber leaves carpeting the otherwise clean sidewalks, and the crisp evening air. Palaces of cream and beige that rose into the sky. There was no stench of trash, no roaring of engines, or incessant chatter that could be found in the city.

 

The plastic of the bottle was still chilled, so she pressed it to her forehead, a wave of shock running through her. It was too cold, and she grimaced. After carefully setting it down in the roof of her car, she was just about ready to turn in for the night. Andy had set up a sleeping bag and bunch of blankets on the floor, and was just a little excited about the arrangement. Sleeping in a bed was disorienting, and she hadn’t put it together anyways. She might actually have to hire someone to do that for her; the Ikea instructions were incomprehensible.

 

Andy heard the wheels of a car pulling up nearby, and glanced in its direction. A gleaming, sleek black car had stopped in front of the townhouse next to hers. Andy felt a little thrill at being able to meet her first neighbour. Sure, this area was bound to be full of rich, intolerable braggarts, but that didn’t stop her from being curious. The door swung open, and her heart soared exhilaratingly when she saw who had slided out of the car.

 

It was none other than Miranda Priestly, her head raised regally and pale vanilla hair sweeping over her forehead, the one forelock falling across her sunglasses. Her evening gown of charcoal silk flowed behind her, fabric falling around her slender shoulders.

 

Andy thought it was remarkable that she looked exactly the same as she had thirteen years ago. She still walked in a graceful stride, glowing ethereally under the light of the lamp posts.

 

Apparently Miranda had noticed her, and the woman froze halfway up the steps to her house. Andy expected her to purse her lips, roll her eyes, or demand what she was doing here; that is, if she even remembered who she was. Instead, the older woman’s lips parted in shock, eyes widening impossibly. She said nothing. It was obvious she did remember.

 

January 20, 2019: M. 

 

Miranda’s dinner party had been more than unpleasant. Too many drunk bachelors, and not enough room to distance herself from them. Next time, she’d come with a date, a bodyguard, or both. James Huntington was incapable of keeping his hands to himself, and had earned the nickname “Cuntington.” Miranda could not have thought of a more fitting moniker. She had been in the middle of the only half-decent conversation that evening, when a rough hand came down to cup her hip.

 

Miranda didn’t turn around, but she didn’t have to. He was the only one in the room that hadn’t met her before, therefore the only one stupid enough to attempt a pass like that. In any other setting, she wouldn’t have hesitated to strike him across the face.

 

However, this was meant to be a sophisticated event, and she’d have to handle this composedly. Public humiliation was on the table.

 

“Well,” Miranda had drawled, her voice dripping with venom. It was enough to silence the entire group. One by one, the groups around them quieted as well. Unfortunately, the hand remained, caressing her, and travelling downwards. Miranda wanted to throw up, and felt an uncomfortable chill ripple down her back. She gave the incredulous faces around her a stony smile. “As riveting as this has been, I believe Mr. Huntington has something to say to me. Perhaps if he stopped fondling me like one might pet a dog, we might be able to have a proper conversation.”

 

The crowd subsequently exploded, and Miranda used this moment of chaos to her advantage. She moved as fast as her heels could carry her, taking care to keep her head ducked. Miranda felt rattled, and she was sure that it showed.

 

Slipping on her sunglasses, she quickly dialed Roy, and ordered that he get here now. She leaned against a pearly white pillar, not caring that her gown was backless, or that the marble was cold. Someone walked past her, shoes clicking against the floor, and she turned her face into the wall. This was ridiculous, she knew it, but couldn’t look at anyone right now.

 

Miranda couldn’t help but feel ashamed; people were supposed to be afraid of her. Fear and respect were synonymous, and if no one respected her, what did she have? Nothing. Who the hell did James Huntington think he was? No man had dared touch her like that, not since she’d become editor-in-chief. Nearly forty years since someone thought that they could do that to her, like she was only some toy that would fall into their hands without protestation. Miranda was no one’s toy, she never has been, and never will be.

 

The Mercedes pulled up, and Miranda slammed the door when she got in. It didn’t make her feel any better.

 

___

 

Roy was quiet until they pulled up to the townhouse. “Stay safe, Miranda.” It was barely audible, but Miranda stopped halfway out of the car anyways. “I shall.” He nodded, and once she was on the sidewalk, he was off.

 

Miranda stared up at her townhouse, with its limestone walls and ornate iron embellishments. These past couple of years, it hadn’t felt like home. She should probably move, but at the same time she didn’t really see the point in doing so. It would take too much time and energy, something Miranda had a very finite supply of. Her girls were in college, Patricia had long ago passed away, so the only thing she came home to was a bottle of wine and the Book.

 

Retirement awaited her; she’d announced that she’d be stepping down on her 63th birthday. Runway was the only place she belonged, and soon she’d have to kiss it goodbye. Miranda’s stomach sank. She had no idea how she was going to spend the rest of her life. Miranda fished out the old key from under the doorway, and was about to unlock the door when she vaguely sensed someone’s eyes on her. She surveyed the area, the dimly lit sidewalk and dark windows. Then she noticed that there was someone in front of Gloria’s old townhouse.

 

The stranger was leaning against an ancient-looking car, staring dead at her. Her hair was chestnut brown, and worn in a medium-length bob. Even in the twilight, Miranda could see that her skin was tanned light caramel, with a light dusting of freckles across her exposed shoulders. What drew Miranda in the most were her eyes. They were watching her intently, flickering in recognition. Expressive, but sad.

 

Miranda was abruptly transported back thirteen years. A similar pair of eyes had gazed at her, but they belonged to a different girl. An assistant, her optimism knowing no ends. She’d made Miranda smile, but ultimately disappeared after that one encounter they shared when she was heading into the Elias-Clark building.

 

Andrea Sachs-- that was a name that she had been scanning newspapers for a while. She’d been following her story, not avidly, but with careful interest. Andrea had worked for CNN, and reported from Syria. About a year or so ago, the articles stopped coming. Miranda was not the kind of person to assume the worst; that didn’t keep her from being concerned anyways.

 

Now, she knew where that girl had gone off to. Here, of course. Of all places she could have gone to, here.

 

They regarded each other somberly, Miranda standing on her steps and Andrea leaning against her car with her arms crossed. Andrea had certainly changed. There was rigidity in her posture, and a strange kind of air about her. Her expression seemed guarded, and her gaze, once warm, was sharp. Miranda wondered if she’d changed as well; she didn’t think so, but it was possible.

 

Andrea smiled tightly, dimples forming in her cheeks. “Hi.” Her voice was soft, but at least to Miranda, that one word resonated through the entire neighbourhood.

 

Miranda tilted her head at her, and after a moment, quirked her lips. Despite the repertoire of things she could have said to Andrea, she whispered, “Goodnight.”

 

Then she unlocked the door.


	2. The Most Intense Form Of Memory

_"Perfume is the most intense form of memory."_ -Jean Paul Gaultier

 

**Day Three**

January 21, 2019: A.

 

Andy wasn’t sure how to feel about this. If she had known that Miranda lived right next to her, she wouldn’t have come here-- probably. This was supposed to be a new beginning, and Andy had this whole glamorous plan about leaving the past behind. She supposed it was foolish to think that everything would magically get better.

 

 _We probably won’t talk to each other again,_  Andy reminded herself. She wasn’t sure if she’d even see Miranda again. The older woman was probably in her sixties, but she doubted that she had retired yet. She certainly hadn’t slowed down. 

 

She drained her water bottle in one gulp, and glanced at her dwindling supply of bottled water. A visit to the convenience store was in order. Andy stretched out, and pain flared up her leg. Maybe not today. Moving around all those boxes was pretty laborious, and she didn’t particularly feel like going out anyways.

 

She picked up an old newspaper off the floor. There weren’t a lot of newspapers produced these days, and the few she saw were used as packaging or thrown on the ground. Andy opened it up to a random page, and quickly flipped it when she saw the headline. She’d had enough of politics to last a lifetime. Andy found the Sunday comics, and had just begun to settle into the world of Garfield when a there was a sharp knock on her door. Andy leapt to her feet, her pain forgotten. It might be Miranda, although she wouldn’t understand why she’d show up. After clumsily fumbling with the locks, the door finally creaked open.

 

A pretty, middle-aged woman beamed at her, but it wasn’t Miranda, to Andy’s disappointment. Her blonde hair glinted gold, and her hazel eyes sparkled playfully. She was well-dressed in a sharp black suit, and a pair of rectangular glasses framed her face.“Hello! You’re Andy Sachs, right? I’m Cathy, I live across the street from you.” The lady spoke with a light British accent, high and warm. Without asking, she took Andy’s hand in hers and shook it. Her grip was like a vice, uncomfortably tight.

 

Andy blinked and withdrew her hand, struggling to process this given information. Why was this loud lady at her door? “Yeah, that’s me. May I help you with anything?”

 

“Oh, no. I just stopped by to welcome you to the neighbourhood,” she explained. “Do you happen to have any children?” Andy’s eyebrows shot up at this, but Cathy continued rambling. “Because I plan out a lot of playgroups and would be more than happy to accomodate you-- Oh! I also made a brisket. It’s a sort of housewarming gift, I suppose. And don’t worry about returning the dish, it’s new and you can keep it.” She laughed airily, and offered the cerulean ceramic plate to her. Andy accepted it, the smooth glass warm in her palms.

 

“Well, thanks for the food,” Andy said slowly, drumming her fingers against the dish. “I guess I’ll see you around, Cathy.” The older woman nodded vigorously. “I bet you will!” With that, Andy waved her off and eventually closed the door.

 

The brisket was still warm, so she scrounged around her backpack for a plastic fork to eat it with. Andy didn’t have any silverware, and made a mental note to go out and get some later. She’d likely forget, she knew it. Once she found one, she popped open the dish, a blend of fragrant herbs hitting her face. Andy sighed in contentment, and flopped onto her sleeping bag.

 

___

 

Andy supposed that it would be a good idea to go to the store before it closed. She slipped into a pair of bright-green Crocs, and nearly snorted when she looked down at them. The orange, fuzzy socks she had on really completed the look.

 

As she started down the steps, Andy noticed an Amazon package laying on the ground. It was weird because she hadn’t even moven in yet, let alone given anyone her new address other than Doug. Curious, she picked it up, trying to gauge what its contents were. Then she saw the label. It was addressed to Miranda Priestly. A car door slammed shut and heels clicked against the sidewalk, which made her glance up.

 

Andy watched Miranda, with the same dizzying kind of wonder she had during her time at Runway. Tonight, she wore a cream-coloured pantsuit, and as always, her sunglasses. They were dark brown, gold-rimmed. Another thing that hadn’t changed, despite the fact that Miranda likely owned several dozen newer, trendier glasses.

 

She wasn’t exactly sure what compelled her to do this, but Andy waved at Miranda. The editor stopped, her face remaining impassive. Andy got a weird sense of déjà vu; this was oddly reminiscent of what happened twelve years ago, when she’d waved to the editor and then skipped off to Syria.

 

Much like the last time, Miranda stared stonily at her, but began walking towards her instead of up the stairs to her own home. Andy swallowed, and tried very hard to convince herself that she was an adult, and wasn’t afraid of Miranda Priestly anymore. She failed, because despite all the time that had passed, that one thing had miraculously stayed the same.

 

Her heart pounded fervently when Miranda stopped in front of her, almost uncomfortably close. In heels, she was around the same height as Andy, but it felt like the older woman towered over her. She could smell her perfume, fragrant but subtle, the scent unclassifiable. It evoked a lot of memories. Some pleasant, some not so much. It was intoxicating, and Andy dumbly decided that all she wanted to do for the rest of her life was smell it, lose herself in the sweetness that was purely Miranda.

 

Miranda opened her mouth, presumably to say something, but no words came out. That was understandable; Andy literally had no idea what they were supposed to talk about. Like the night before, they regarded each other silently. Carefully, waiting for the other to make the first move, ask the first question. Neither of them were ready to do that, clearly.

“T-this is yours.” She pushed the package into Miranda’s arms slowly, gently, and the editor blinked, her gloved hands holding the box securely. It seemed like Andy had confused Miranda for the time being, but once the older woman regained her senses, she’d probably tear her to pieces.

 

Andy shuffled back into the house frantically, grocery shopping of no importance to her now. She felt the older woman’s eyes on her as she opened the door, and was beyond relieved that she had forgotten to lock it before heading out.

 

___

 

January 21, 2019: M.

All the bravado Miranda’d had when approaching Andrea left her almost instantaneously. This had been such a poor decision. Both of them had just gaped at each other like fishes out of water, until Andrea shoved a parcel into her arms and all but ran back into her house.

 

Miranda supposed that it was for the best that the girl had left, but was oddly frustrated. The whole ordeal was frustrating. Why was she incapable of saying anything to the girl, other than one or two word greetings? And why did she care about this to begin with? She continued to mull over these questions as she drank her brandy. She didn’t have the Book tonight, because Victoria Domonkos, the future editor-in-chief of Runway did.

 

Victoria was the perfect candidate for her position. Young, pretty, ambitious, and Miranda’s most promising protégé. “No one can do what I do,” in Paris had been a bit of a stretch; as much as it pained Miranda to admit it, Runway was more than capable of staying afloat without her. Certainly not as effectively, but still. It could manage, especially now that the recently appointed chairman of Elias-Clark was much more competent than Irv.

 

Her phone rang shrilly, interrupting her increasingly depressing train of thought. Miranda pounced on it immediately, grateful for the distraction. She didn’t bother to check the caller ID.

 

“Miranda Priestly.”

 

“Hi Mom.” Cassidy’s voice was flat.

 

Miranda froze, things taking a moment to properly register. She tried to keep her voice even, which was difficult when all she wanted to do was break down into tears. Whether they would be of joy or sadness, she didn’t know. “Bobbsey, how have you been?”

 

There was a sigh on the other end. “Fine. Listen, I’m going to be home sometime in March. I’m starting an internship there at the New York Times. I’ll try to get an apartment soon, but until then, I may have to stay at the townhouse.”

 

“Of course. Darling, you’re more than welcome to stay. It’s your home as well, after all.” Miranda’s voice cracked a bit, and she cursed herself.

 

“Not anymore. But I don’t think I really have a choice,” her daughter said a little acidly.

 

Miranda felt a pang of hurt, and was torn between snapping at her or crying. She decided neither, because she couldn’t afford to antagonise her, nor make Cassidy feel uncomfortable. “Oh, I see. Well, I’m glad you’ll be visiting.”

 

“Yeah. Anyways, that’s all I wanted to talk to you about.” Cassidy spoke briskly. “Bye.” Miranda was promptly hung up on, and she stared at her black screen for a minute before finally tearing her eyes away.

 

She noticed the brown package that Andrea had forced into her arms sitting across the glass table from her, curiosity nagging at her. Not the contents of the package, she was sure it was the ink cartridges for her Mont Blanc pen; but rather the girl herself. Andrea, who had once been her second assistant, was now her neighbour in the Upper East Side. It was all very interesting.

 

Andrea had always been refreshing. Her presence at Runway broke the monotony of everything, violating the unspoken but rigid guidelines that everyone followed without question. This should have aggravated Miranda, but there was something special about the girl that made it acceptable. Now she had burst into Miranda’s neighbourhood, wearing shabby clothes and living alone. The suburbs weren’t exactly the best place to do that, which made Miranda wonder; why was she here? Whatever happened to her prestigious reporting position at CNN? What should Miranda do? She could easily avoid Andrea forever, but that didn’t seem right. They had history together, and it would be immature of her to ignore that. There was something similar about the girl that reminded her of herself. _I see a great deal of myself in you,_ she recalled saying to her, so long ago.

 

Miranda had been referring to their shared ambition and intelligence. Now however, the most prevalent qualities between the two of them weren’t nearly as positive. Miranda was sad, lonely, and dejected. Andrea-- she wasn’t sure what exactly had happened, but it certainly had left an impression on her. A shadow had cut across Andrea’s face when she stared out emptily, like she was only anticipating the worst to happen.

 

Miranda rose from her seat and crept by the window, and saw that Andrea was sitting on the steps, looking out. Twilight was creeping in, white strips of clouds against light violet. The editor pulled on a coat, the fur draping comfortably around her, and stepped out into the cold. Dry leaves crunched under her heels as she walked, her Hermès scarf rippling behind her. The barren branches of the maple trees whistled in the wind, and if it weren’t for that, the neighbourhood would be dead silent.

 

She strided towards Andrea, but her steps slowed the nearer she got. Andrea gazed up at her, not looking at all surprised. Her face was indecipherable. Miranda felt a flash of uneasiness. Perhaps this wasn’t a good idea, and she should head back in. Perhaps Andrea wanted to be left alone.

 

Still battling with this apprehension, she sat down on the steps next to Andrea. The girl gave her the faintest of smiles before turning her head back to watch the sky. Miranda did the same, observing the wave of lavender yielding to indigo. None of them said anything, but they didn’t need to.

 

___

 

January 21, 2019: A.

 

Andy shivered, even though she was wearing her bulkiest parka. New York was colder than she remembered. She buried her face in the fur ruff of the hood, which tickled her cheek but didn’t do much to warm her.

 

“You’re cold,” Miranda said, her voice low. Andy looked at her, even thought the other woman wasn’t. Her feathery hair was trussed by the wind, and she had a thoughtful expression on her face, head tilted upwards to peer at the sky. Andy wasn’t sure if Miranda was even paying attention to the the incoming twilight; her mind looked as though it was wandering elsewhere.

 

“Eh, sort of. You?” Without a word, the editor draped her own coat around Andy, who blushed uncontrollably. It was incredibly warm, and smelled heavily of Miranda. Coffee, subtle perfume, maybe wine. A really odd but comforting combination of things. Andy found herself involuntarily relaxing.

 

“Thank you. But aren’t you--”

 

“Oh, please.” Miranda rolled her eyes, beginning to seem more like herself. “I’ve been living in New York for nearly fifty years, and you think I’m unaccustomed to the cold?”

 

Andy toyed with a corner of the coat, the fur practically melting in her hands. It was no doubt real, and expensive. “That makes sense, I suppose.”

 

“Yes.”

 

There was even more silence, and this time it was more awkward than natural.

 

Andy cleared her throat. “So how have you been, Miranda? With Runway, and uh... stuff.” God, she had to be the worst conversationalist to ever live.

 

Miranda’s eyes met hers, brilliantly blue, with an eyebrow arched. “Fine. I retire this year.” Thank God, she’d mercifully decided to not comment on Andy’s stupidity.

 

“Oh. Congratulations?”

 

“No, I’m dreading it.”

 

Andy bit her lip, not knowing how to respond to that. “Oh.”

 

“People tend to favour particular words when they speak, Andrea,” Miranda said. “I’m beginning to believe that ‘oh’ is a recurring one for you. Considering you were once a journalist, I wouldn’t expect your vocabulary to be so lackluster.”

 

Andy couldn’t help but feel a little hurt at the jab, but was more curious about how the older woman knew that she was no longer employed. “Once?”

 

“Yes,” Miranda answered a bit impatiently. “You reported from Syria, but now you’re here. Not to mention, you’ve spent the past couple of days doing nothing else but lugging around those boxes. I know a good moving company that could do it for you.” Andy opened her mouth to answer, but Miranda silenced her with a hand and kept speaking.

 

“Honestly Andrea, you’re not exactly young anymore. It’s dangerous to do that kind of heavy lifting all at your age.” Her lips quirked into an almost imperceptible smile.

 

“So you’re saying I’m old.” Andy knew she sounded a little sour, but she thought it was well-justified, considering the fact that her old boss was making fun of her.

 

“Well, of course. It’s not that you can help it, of course, it happens to all of us.”

 

"Are you sure? You look exactly the same, it's almost like you haven't aged at all."

 

Miranda looked amused. "Oh? How interesting."

 

"You do look great though," Andy said truthfully. "Much better than I do."

 

"That's a routine compliment, but I'll accept it." She sighed, suddenly looking very tired. Andy had a feeling that this.. conversation was over.

 

“I’ll be going home now, it’s late and I have work to do. This has been dreadfully bland, but I’m sure we’ll be seeing plenty of each other in the future, regardless of whether we want to or not.” She rose, her back arching languidly as she stretched. Andy wondered how it was humanly possible to have that body at her age. _Then again, this is Miranda we’re talking about,_ she reminded herself. _Of course she still looks fantastic._

 

Andy supposed she might as well head in too, since it was almost totally dark out. After she climbed up the steps, she paused in front of her door. Miranda was ambling up her own steps gracefully, a remarkable feat for someone wearing six inch heels. She shook her head, feeling a smile tugging at her lips. Perhaps being neighbours with Miranda wouldn’t be nearly as unpleasant as she’d initially thought.

 

She carefully hung up Miranda's coat on a peg on the wall. It still smelled like her.


	3. Late Night Latkes For Dinner? Why Not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will add Andy's POV onto this chapter once I finish it. Sorry if my writing style seems a little different, I'm not sure what happened.
> 
> Anyways, I hope you enjoy. <3

_"Life changes fast. Life changes in the instant. You sit down to dinner and life as you know it ends."_ -Joan Didion

  
**Day Four**

 

January 22, 2019: M.

 

Miranda didn’t particularly want to go to therapy, but her doctor kept incessantly nagging at her to try it. So she finally caved, something she’d only done a few times in her life.

 

So far, she’d torn through one, two, three, four, five, six different therapists. Each lasted about one session, or sometimes even less than that. She’d walked out on the fifth one. Now, Miranda was sitting in front of victim number seven, Dr. Esther Park, who wore a kind smile and was studying her carefully over the rims of round glasses. Miranda didn’t smile back.

 

“Hello, Miranda, I’m Dr. Esther Park,” she said pleasantly. “So what brings you here today?”

 

Miranda offered nothing in response. If this woman’s job was to pry information out of her, she wasn’t off to a strong start. They both knew damn well why she was here today, and she just wanted to get this over with, without having to answer redundant questions.

 

Dr. Park’s helpful smile was unwavering. “I see that this isn’t your first time here.” She began flipping through a stack of papers on a clipboard, and Miranda stole a wary glance at it. “How’s your family?”

 

Miranda stuck her tongue inside her cheek. “Fine. We’re fine.” She let her eyes roam about the room, taking in the ecru-painted walls and minimalistic paintings hanging from them. There were several plants scattered around the office, their pots the same mustard-yellow as the upholstered chairs. Simple, but tasteful, she supposed. Though petite wood tables would match better than the crude slab of grey glass being used as a table.

 

“Oh, I’m glad to hear that,” Dr. Park said. “Why don’t you tell me about them?”

 

“What should I tell you?” Miranda zeroed in on the lamps. The one next to her was giving off a different kind of light than the one behind Dr. Park. It made the office feel a little less sterile, a little more homely. She wasn’t sure if that was intentional or not.

 

“Anything, really.”

 

Miranda drew her attention back to the therapist, because the room was small and she was done looking. “Well. My daughters are named Cassidy and Caroline. They’re both 20 and are now attending university.” She didn’t know what else to say. Other than their majors, she knew virtually nothing about what they were doing. The call from Cassidy offered little information, and was the first time the girls have made any attempt to contact her since they left.

 

Dr. Park scribbled something down that was too messy for Miranda to make out. “That’s great, you must be so proud of them. How are they liking it so far?”

 

“I-- I think they’re enjoying themselves.” Miranda heard the stutter in her voice, and knew by Dr. Park’s raised eyebrow that she was in trouble.

 

“I see. When was the last time you talked to them?” Dr. Park tilted her head at Miranda in question.

 

“I spoke to Cassidy yesterday,”  Miranda said with a sigh. “She’ll be coming home sometime in March, as she has some sort of internship with the New York Times.” She wasn’t looking at the therapist now.

 

“Oh, how impressive.” Dr. Park’s wrist was flying across the clipboard now. “And Caroline?”

 

Miranda stared at the framed watercolour daffodils hanging on the wall, above the therapist’s head. They were messy and there were dried water stains dotting the paper. It looked like some child’s craft project, and likely was. “It’s been a while since we’ve spoken.”

 

“How long?”

 

“It doesn’t matter.” Miranda said, a little too sharply. It did matter, but she didn’t want to talk about it. She didn’t want this woman to know how broken she was, how desperate she was to see her girls again, how many wasted nights she’d spent wallowing in self-pity, then anger.

 

Dr. Park’s face was sympathetic, and her voice was remarkably gentle when she said, “Miranda, I’m sorry but you’ll have to give me a little more than that because--”

 

“No.”

 

“The more you tell me, the more I’ll be able to help you,” she finished as if Miranda hadn’t spoken. Dr. Park gave her a small smile. “Tell you what, we can discuss something else if you’re not ready to talk about this yet. I know it’s Tuesday, but did you do anything fun over the weekend?”

 

The first thing that came to mind was Andrea. That inexplicably sad smile and smooth, freckled shoulders under a light purple sky. “Not particularly,” she lied.

 

“Well, what did you do?” Dr. Park set down her clipboard and turned her full attention onto Miranda, dark eyes curious.

 

“I attended a benefit event on Sunday, and I spent my Saturday in the office, doing work,” Miranda said flatly.

 

Dr. Park was either unaware of how disgruntled Miranda was or deciding to ignore it. “Ah, how nice. Do you often spend your Saturdays this way?”

 

“If my schedule allows, yes. Why do you ask?”

 

“What do your friends think of this?”

 

Miranda’s face grew hot. “I don’t... I’m not sure what you mean.” Dr. Park was frowning now, and looked like she wanted to say something, but Miranda cut her off quickly. She’d played along with Dr. Park’s game of 70 Stupid Questions, now she needed to get to the point.

 

“I’m here because my doctor says that I need therapy,” Miranda growled. “Now tell me, what is wrong with me, and how do I fix it?”

 

“It’s not that there’s something wrong with you,” Dr. Park answered patiently, seemingly unaffected by Miranda’s outburst. “It’s just that, it sounds like you have a lot going on.”

 

“Yes, I’m the editor-in-chief of Runway, I’m very busy.” Miranda couldn’t help but roll her eyes at the obvious. “I’m sure you’re a busy person as well.”

 

Dr. Park took a deep breath, pressing a hand to her temples. She suddenly looked very tired. “Well, yes. But it sounds to me like you’re not really... you don’t do much other than work. You aren’t in close contact with your daughters, you’ve avoided my question regarding your friendships. Are you romantically involved with anyone?”

 

Miranda bristled. “No.” Why would she, after three failed marriages, and even more short-lived relationships? Anyways, they demanded an absurd amount of attention, and soon her partner went from being about “us” to being about “me.” It was annoying, but nowhere as irritating as Dr. Park continuing to prod her with questions, despite how clear she was making it that she didn’t want to answer them.

 

“Okay,” Dr. Park said weakly. “What would you like to talk about then?”

 

“I don’t know, perhaps I’d like for this session to actually be productive, considering how much time and money this is costing me,” she snapped. Really, how difficult was it to understand? So far nothing had been accomplished, and it had almost been an hour already. She had opted to leave a runthrough in Catherine’s still-inexperienced hands for this, so she had been expecting it to be slightly more worthwhile.

 

“You know what? I think we’re done here, actually.” Miranda said cooly, rose to her feet, and Dr. Park did as well, a strained smile on her face.

 

“Oh. Well, I hope to see you again.” She offered Miranda a handshake, who simply glared at it. Dr. Park didn’t seem to flinch. “When you find a new therapist, please keep this in mind; we can only help as much as you’ll let us, so next time you need to be willing to share more information.”

 

Miranda scowled, but Dr. Park’s voice was just as chipper as it was initially when she said, “Goodbye, and thanks for coming.”

 

___

 

Miranda slid into the leather seats of the car, where her first assistant Amara was waiting for her, notepad in hand. Her brown eyes widened considerably and she scooted closer to her own window, away from Miranda.

 

“Hello, Miranda.” She gave her a small smile and handed her a cup of Starbucks coffee. Miranda accepted it, and began rattling off a list of instructions, while Amara frantically tried to keep up with her, the sounds of pen scratching on paper filling the car.

 

“Tell Peter that no, we’re not using the golden hoop earrings, they’d clash horribly with the silver sequins. Cancel my meeting with Lina, move it up to Friday. Hana will wait for the book tonight instead. I expect you to take careful notes during the meeting regarding Herrera’s autumn collection for Paris Fashion Week.” Miranda narrowed her eyes at Amara, who made a nervous, little noise in the back of her throat. “Yes, Miranda.”

 

Miranda tapped her lips thoughtfully. There was something else-- what was-- oh. "Book another appointment with Dr. Park sometime next week.That’s all.”

 

Amara nodded and shook her wrist, like she always did, as if it hurt from writing. Miranda raised an eyebrow. “That’s been happening rather frequently. Have you gotten it checked?”

 

Her assistant was staring at her as if she’d grown a second head. “What? Oh-- no, I haven’t. Maybe I should?” She sounded alarmed.

 

“Yes, do that,” Miranda said. “It may be carpal tunnel, which is not only a major inconvenience, but also excruciatingly painful.” She kept her eyes trained on Amara, who was beginning to squirm under her scrutiny. “Book an appointment with my doctor, as soon as possible.”

 

Amara’s eyes darted from Miranda to her wrist, and back at Miranda, clearly uncomprehending. “What?”

 

Miranda rolled her eyes. Amara was a dutiful assistant, but terribly slow on the uptake sometimes. “Dr. Patridge should be able to help you, tell him I sent you. If you encounter any trouble with him, I’ll talk to him myself.”

 

Her assistant continued to look blankly at her, and Miranda frowned. “Oh... that’s very nice of you,” the assistant said finally. “Thank y-you.” She glanced at her notes, and then uneasily at Miranda once more, before going onto her phone.

 

Miranda pressed her cheek against the window, looking out the windows blurred by rainwater, and not for the first time that day, found her thoughts drifting to Andrea.

 

___

 

Miranda had just gotten comfortable in her study and was leafing through a novel she’d started ages ago. No Book yet.

 

She wondered vaguely where Agatha Christie got inspiration for such an intricate story like this. Miranda was by no means a writer, but she knew good work when she saw it. It was so meticulously crafted, every completed page by no means sating her intrigue, merely feeding the flames. She had just reached the part where the murderer was about to be revealed, when there was an insistent knock on her door. Miranda shut her eyes in frustration. Perhaps whomever it was, they’d disappear if she didn’t answer. It wasn’t Amara, because she had a key to the house.

 

Unsurprisingly, the knocking continued, and Miranda got up with a huff to open the door. Whoever had the gall to disturb her at 9:00 at night was out of their mind, and she decided that she’d tell them so.

 

“What? What do you want?” Miranda snapped, a wave of cold air hitting her. She tugged her robe around her tightly. God, it was freezing.

 

“Did I come at a bad time?” Andrea inquired. She had a coat-- Miranda’s coat-- tucked in one arm, and held an umbrella with the other. “I wanted to return your coat a couple hours ago, but I fell asleep.” She smiled sheepishly, and it reminded Miranda of the Andrea she once knew. Miranda instantly forgave her, but she arched an eyebrow. “Well, are you going to dither in the doorway until we both drop dead, or do you plan on coming inside sometime this century?”

 

Andrea’s face broke into a radiant grin. “Sure, I’d love to.” Miranda nudged the door open a bit more so that Andrea could step in.

 

“I’ll take your umbrella and shoes,” Miranda said. She’d invited Andrea in on an impulse, but that didn’t mean she’d have to drop all common courtesies. Andrea looked surprised for a moment, but nodded and slipped out of her shoes, which Miranda realised with a jolt were an atrocious pair of Crocs. And not the Balenciaga platform ones, which were still disgusting but not nearly as grubby as _those._

 

“I ought to put these in the trash can, where they belong,” Miranda said. “Or better yet, burn them.” She picked one up with two fingers delicately, wrinkling her nose. “These are horrendous. An insult to-- what in God’s name are those?” She stared in disbelief at the furry, Saint-Patrick’s-Day-green monstrosities that covered Andrea’s feet.

 

“These are my socks, and they’re very cozy,” Andrea said with something that almost sounded like pride. “I have another pair at home if you want one.” Her eyes danced with laughter.

 

“No, thank you. It’s miraculous that you’ve managed to forget everything Nigel and I have taught you,” Miranda said wryly. Her eyes raked over Andrea. The faded Northwestern sweatshirt, the garish, flannel pajama pants. No, no, no. “Absolutely unacceptable,” she proclaimed. “If you insist on parading about my home, you are not permitted to wear that.”

 

“But you’re the one who invited me in,” Andrea protested, though Miranda has a feeling it was in jest. “It’s technically your own fault that I’m in your house, wearing comfort clothing. If you didn’t want me here, you could have just taken the coat and made me leave.” She raised an eyebrow in the same manner Miranda did.

 

Miranda’s lips quirked. “Keep in mind you could have declined the invitation.”

 

“Nah, I couldn’t have,” Andrea said good-naturedly. “I didn’t want to.” Heat suffused in Miranda’s stomach. This was nice, so familiar. How long had it been since she’d talked to someone like this? She couldn’t recall. Miranda had no idea until now how starved she was for a normal, easy conversation.

 

“Oh god, I came in here to give you your coat, and I’m still holding it.” Andrea’s laugh was gentle. She offered it to Miranda, but she shook her head.

 

“No, keep it.” Miranda already had enough coats to clothe an army, and she wasn’t fond of that one anyways. “You could really use it, considering your current attire.” She gave Andrea a mean little smile.

 

“I’m sorry I don’t own cashmere pajamas, Miranda. Not all of us can afford it.” Andrea’s smile wasn’t as wide now.

 

Miranda felt a flicker of irritation at Andrea for souring the mood. “If you can’t afford it, why are you occupying a townhouse in the Upper East Side? And not to mention, you’re living alone,” she huffed.

 

“Well... I don’t really know. I just wanted to try something new.” Andrea shrugged, as if it completely was normal to purchase a 25 million dollar home on a whim. “Besides, I didn't know what else I could have used the money for.”

 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe food, or clothing, electric bills, or you could have saved it.” Miranda said snidely as she counted these off on her fingers.

 

Andrea’s face was blank. “Yeah. Maybe I could have done that, but I didn’t, because I’d just gotten back from Syria. It’s pretty hard to think in the long-term when you narrowly avoided getting blown up and move back to a country that you barely recognise.” Miranda was tempted to apologise, but she simply pursed her lips and looked askance.

 

There was another uncomfortable silence, as if they’d once again, forgotten how to talk to each other. Andrea must have found her floor very interesting, considering how intently she was staring at it.

 

“Have you eaten dinner yet?” Miranda asked, then wondered why she had. She was too tired to cook anything, and her chef Jimena had gone home for the day. She didn’t even know if there was enough food in the refrigerator for a meal.

 

“Nope. Why are you asking though?” Andrea blinked. “I mean-- I was planning on ordering Chinese take-out later.”

 

Miranda made a face. The thought of all that greasy, diabetes-inducing food was nauseating. “That won’t do at all. Come with me, Andrea.” She beckoned for Andrea to follow, and as she tied an apron around her waist, she asked herself what the hell she was doing. Miranda couldn’t come up with an answer to that.

 

January 22, 2019: A.

 

Andy watched Miranda glide around the kitchen, her eyes refusing to believe what she was seeing. Miranda Priestly, for some unknown reason, was making her dinner. Not that she was complaining, of course-- but wow.

 

Miranda had opened the fridge, and was assessing its contents with a hard stare. “Do you like latkes, Andrea?”

 

Andy didn’t know what those were, but said, “Sure.” Miranda was looking at her now. “You’ve never had latkes before, have you?”

 

“No,” Andy admitted, and Miranda rolled her eyes. If Miranda thought it was a food worth cooking, then she trusted it. Besides, it’s not like she was picky-- living on the run in the Middle East didn’t really give you many options. “I think it would be cool to try them though, whatever they are.”

 

“Latkes it is then,” Miranda murmured, pulling various containers and bags out of the fridge. Andy immediately got up to help her, but Miranda waved her off. “I can handle myself. Sit down, Andrea.”

 

“No, I insist.” 

 

Miranda pursed her lips, likely displeased with the fact that Andy wasn’t listening to her. “Fine.” She bristled a little when Andy approached.

 

“Okay, so how can I help?” Andy glanced at the ingredients laid out on the counter, unsure where to begin. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d actually cooked. Uh oh.

 

“Well,” Miranda began haughtily. “You would be most useful sitting down, out of the way. But since you’re intent on quote-unquote ‘helping,’ you should chop up those potatoes.”

 

“Shouldn’t I wash them first?”

 

Miranda rolled her eyes. “I thought that much was obvious.”

 

“Okay,” Andy said, feeling as small as she had under Miranda’s employ. It wasn’t a good feeling, but familiar at least.

 

The water that ran over her hands was jarringly cold, and even with her back turned, she knew the older woman was watching her. Andy didn’t comment on it, and Miranda just kept staring at her. Eventually Andy just turned off the faucet and set down the potatoes.

 

“What?” It came out a little harsher than she had meant it to, and she cringed. “I mean, uh. How are your kids?”  _ Wow, what a great save, _ Andy thought to herself, wanting nothing more than to melt through the floor in that moment.

 

Miranda just kept looking at her, her gaze steely. “They’re fine.” The only sound filling the house was the steady ticking of the clock on the wall, which echoed off of the marble countertops. “Let’s go back to fixing up dinner, shall we?”

 

“Did you eat dinner yet?” Andy found herself asking. Miranda simply shook her head. “I usually don’t.”

 

Andy was determined to have an actual conversation with Miranda, despite her resistance. “How’s Runway? Any particular designers or collections you’re looking forward to seeing at Paris Fashion Week?”

 

Miranda narrowed her eyes. “I agreed to dinner, not an interview.”

 

“This isn’t an interview, this is a conversation,” Andy retorted with a huff. “Is it a crime for me to want to talk to you, considering I’m making dinner with you in your house, seeing you for the first time in twelve years?” Miranda simply pursed her lips.

 

Andy sighed. “I’m not asking for you to give me your life story, Miranda. It’s just that I never really got to know you when I was your assistant, but I want to.”

 

Miranda affixed her with an incredulous stare. “This is pointless, on so many levels.” Then her jaw tensed. “Allow me to ask you a question, Andrea. Where have you been for the past thirteen years?”

 

Andy’s throat went dry. “I can’t answer that.”

 

“Well,” Miranda said haughtily, reaching out for a bottle of white wine on the table. She poured out two glasses, sliding one over to Andy. “It seems as though neither of us are ready to have a conversation like this. Let’s drop this, shall we? And hand me those potatoes.”

 

Andy had to admit that Miranda made a good point, and they finished preparing dinner in silence.


End file.
